With Hurricane Eyes
by ebonyandyew
Summary: Hamish and Bridget Hudson piloted a Jaeger that everyone else nicknamed the Scrap Heap. To them, she was Ursa Nova. A hope built out of the pieces of others and steady as they came. She wasn't pretty, she wasn't the fastest or the strongest or the newest. She did was she was built for, and to the Hudsons and the people they protected, that was enough.
1. The World's Going to Hell

Bridget began life in the usual manner. A clawing gasp of bittersweet, double-edged air, and a wail that marked the slow count down.

_Christ_, Ham thought, _I'm a cynical bastard_. His fingers paged through the old photos of a red-faced, fist-waving heft of a baby._October 2nd, 2004 _was written on the back in loopy woman's handwriting. His sister was a natural disaster just waiting in the wings. Always had been. Ham just felt bad for whatever unlucky son of a bitch got it in his head to marry her. She currently was in her tiny excuse for a room blasting nasal-lyric-heavy, four-chord-having rock from her radio. Ham could hear her mattress springs creak from where she was dancing. It wasn't really dancing. It was more of Bridget just unleashing her hair and making general body movements that went along most of the time.

"Oy! You wanna cut that out anytime soon?" Ham bellowed, fist smacking against the wall they shared.

There was another creak and then a thud. The music kept going.

"You wanna get that stick out of your ass anytime soon?" Bridget crowed back, fist smacking back against the wall. Ham could almost see the jerky movements of her early-teen elbows and knees as she completely disregarded what he had just said. He was supposed to be compiling some bullshit excuse for a scrapbook of important events in his life. It was supposed to let him graduate. Whether or not he would still retain his dignity afterward was still a hotly contested issue. Pops said he would be fine. Ham had a tendency to doubt most of what he said.

Ham picked the photo he knew he was going to pick in the beginning. Newborn Bridget, hours old, in their mother's artistic choice of black and white, held by a cautious three year old him, staring out a window like he could already tell her the ways of it all. He glued it down and labelled underneath in black marker: _When I Was No Longer Alone_. It was simultaneously sentimental to the point of being bruising and callous. Ham thought the description fit himself pretty well too.

The next out of the lineup was a stunningly spare and ill-framed photo of a small plaque in a grey stone wall. Ham picked the marker up and held it in the intermittent space for a moment before deciding: _When I Lost Gravity. _

The bass line of Bridget's radio thumped through the walls into his ears.

"Bridge! Pops comes home and you've still got that on-"

There was a rumble of an old model Cadillac pulling into the driveway. The music shut off immediately. There was a scramble of feet, Ham's included, and the shutting of doors as they snapped to attention at the top of the stairs. The keys were in the lock, the handle turning and in stepped Pops. Ashy grey-blonde hair parted with a ruler, mustache bushy yet contained. All set above the crisp Navy uniform that denoted his place as commandant.

John Bradley Hudson looked up, smile proud and turned to put his keys on the table next to the front door.

"At ease." His voice rumbled out. Ham saw his sister's shoulders slump to a slovenly level out of the corner of his eye. She never did things in halves, he'd give her that. "Hamish, if you'd join me in the kitchen, we have something to discuss." There was an odd glint in Pops' eye, like someone had just told him the shipyard workers were no longer on strike or that North Korea's newest rocket design just detonated inside its own facility. Hamish trudged dutifully down the wooden staircase, keeping his shoulders back and spine tight. Unlike Bridget, he wasn't a child, he was seventeen. She took her dismissal and headed back to her room, the door slamming into place with a bit more force than necessary. If Pops noticed, he didn't say anything, just popped his hat off his head and set it on the round kitchen table. He was spry for a sixty four year old man.

Ham took his seat across from his grandfather and waited for him to start. From the hallway, he could hear his sister's music start up again, at a much lower volume. Pops' gnarled meaty hands laced their fingers together and came to rest on the wooden table top.

"The Pan-Pacific Defence Corps are recruiting. Fresh, no previous service needed. They seem to want that, actually." Pops shrugged his big shoulders as if he wasn't taking it as an insult. Ham knew from experience he was. "They're looking for skilled young men like yourself. I want you to sign up." They'd been over this a few times. Pops seemed to think his great failing with Ham's father was not getting him into the military soon enough. The real failure was getting him into the military at all. That and a dose of Kaiju Blue.

Ham could hold his own in a fight, sure, and he wasn't scared of much, but those were hardly qualifying features for a brilliant career in the armed forces. Bridget, however, would be terrifying. He could see her as a drill sergeant, riding crop over one shoulder, bull horn in the other hand.

Pops cleared his throat and leaned forward on his elbows, the way he did when he was going to tell Ham something that would cost him.

"I am going to level with you, Hamish, and you cannot tell your sister what I'm about to say to you."

Ham resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Bridget would twist it out of him anyhow, there wasn't much point in secrecy.

"The world as you've known it, as we've known it, is coming to an end. Without this Jaeger program, it would've crashed down around our ears already. As it is now, as I see it, we've delayed it, but they will come back, and the way things are now- the economy is a wreck, the government is in shambles- the only stability you can find is in the military-"

Ham took the rest of his grandad's speech in silence. It was true, the world was going to shit, but that didn't seem like enough of a reason. Still, wasn't like he had any other plans, and there was no arguing with Pops when he got a notion in his head. Ham supposed Pops thought he would have some sort of vendetta against the Kaiju crawling their way out of the ocean floor. He probably thought it was the right thing to do, hate the things that killed his parents and sparked the end times. Ham didn't. His parents were in the wrong city at the wrong goddamn time. Humanity was in the wrong city at the wrong goddamn time. Every day there were more reports from one of the major event cities. Manila was experiencing some kind of toxic haze that was coming up out of the decaying carcass of Hundun. Sydney was blown to shit, the nuclear fallout killing damn-near everything.

"Hamish, I think this is the best option, son." John Hudson finished. His grey eyes were sincere, and pained if Ham bothered to look deep enough.

"Yes sir," Ham said, spine still tight and stiff. His mind was screaming at him to do something, anything, to not bow his head ot the inevitable. His mind lost. "Where's the ROC?" His voice asked.

Later that night, when the lights had gone off on their street in suburbia-sub-Port Hardy, Bridge rapped her knuckles against the wall. It was their way of asking to talk. Ham lifted his head off his pillow and knocked twice back. _Alright, c'mon over_. Her barefeet padded against the carpeted floor and she appeared in the moonlight coming through his window. Her curly blonde hair, ashy and dishwater like his, made Bridge seem bigger than she was. Neither of them was very tall, but Ham had a Hudson's big shoulders, and his sister had her own kind of bulk that was just coming in.

Bridget slid in, resting her head next to his. She didn't hold his hand anymore like when they were little. Their biceps bumped up against each other, Bridge's rather cool to the touch, Ham's giving off heat like a radiator.

"Ham, what's happening?" She asked, staring at the ceiling fan whirring on.

"The world's going to hell."


	2. The Ashes of Cigarettes

September of 2019 Ham was enrolled in the PPDC Jaeger Academy in Kodiak, Alaska. His hair was cut tight to his scalp, his patchy stubble of that awkward time between boy and man was shaved. The canvas strap of his gear bag dug into his shoulder as he stood in front of Bridget, just about to board his flight. Bridget's hand wouldn't stop moving at her side, the other was holding her elbow in a pose of tacit indifference. She was getting good at it. Not as good as she'd like, but for now it was enough. Her brother had it down to a science.

"Don't be stupid when I'm gone." Ham said, with a tight sort of smile.

Bridget snorted. "You're taking all the stupid with you, there won't be any left."

His face lit into a full smile then, he shifted his weight from foot to foot and winced like he should've seen that coming.

"But you'll be alright, yeah?" Her brother asked, face more genuine than it had been since he had received his acceptance letter from the PPDC. Ham was good at putting up walls, even to her. You saw what he wanted you to see, no more, no less. Playing poker with him was damn impossible if you still wanted money at the end of the night.

"Ain't got much choice in that, do I?"

It sounded like a joke, a bit of lighthearted sarcasm. Bridget knew the truth was in there as well. They hadn't been apart since that day in Los Angeles. This was new and uncomfortable territory. There'd be no knocking on the walls at night. It felt final in a way that didn't sit right in her gut and pissed her off. Pops was more than gung-ho to let Ham, who didn't even want to join up, enlist, but when she suggested it, it was like she had told him the sky was green. Wherever Ham went, she went. It'd always been like that.

"I'll be okay, Ham." She told her brother when he looked at her with discerning eyes. Bridget punched his arm. "Take care of yourself. Anyone calls you short, you kick their ass." Her voice faltered and she glanced away quickly. Ham laughed and squeezed her to him. He kissed the top of her hair and tried to put her in a headlock. She avoided it with a quick jab to his gut.

"Atta girl." Ham wheezed, biceps still firmly around Bridget's shoulders. Her brother could be such a dork. She stuck a folded, slightly crumpled photograph into his hand and wrapped his fingers around it. Ham quickly shoved it into his pocket and kissed Bridget's head again.

"Alright," He said, clearing his throat. "I don't get a move on, I'll have to paddle to Anchorage."

Bridget let herself laugh and swiped at her eyes with her wrists.

"Pops is probably throwing a fit."

Their grandad had told Bridget to only take five minutes and was waiting outside in the car. Ham grinned and set his heavy paw of a hand on her shoulder.

"It's only twenty four weeks, I'll be out before you know it. 'Sides, not like they could really use a guy like me as a Ranger."

Bridget just shook her head and rolled her eyes. Her brother's self-deprecation had always been a point of contention. He was steady, and smart, and brave, and strong as a bear, and determined, and a damn sight more level-headed than she was. He could be all things good in the world, if he'd open his eyes once and a while to see it.

"Oh! Almost forgot," His hands fumbled for one of his jacket pockets and pulled out a packet of envelopes tied up with red and white striped string. "There's one for Will, if you could-"

"Yeah," Bridget nodded, taking the letters from his hands. There were at least five thick parcels.

"The rest are for you. Don't suppose I'll get much time to write."

Ham had always been a writer. She'd still tease him about the phase he went through when he wrote sword and sandal fantasy garbage. It wasn't really garbage, but Bridget would be loathe to admit that.

Her brother was watching her with gentle eyes as she traced random circles over the paper with her fingertips.

"I love you."

"To the moon and back." She agreed. Bridget knew Ham was looking for some kind of dismissal, some clear directive to leave, or else they'd just be standing here until Ham really did have to paddle his way to Alaska. So, she gave him a wink and a sharp salute, hugged him one last time and walked away. She didn't look back to see if her brother had done the same, she just kept her feet moving. Moving all the way to the 1986 Cadillac Fleetwood that sat idling outside. If Pops was miffed about her being two minutes late, he didn't say it.

He didn't say anything the whole drive home.

Bridget's fingers kept twisting the string that kept the letters together in her pocket and kept her eyes glued firmly out the window.

"Bridget-" Pops started when they had pulled into the driveway of the little grey clapboard house in Port Hardy. She didn't let him finish, slamming the door shut and walking the other way down the street. "Bridget Eileen Hudson!"

She really didn't see the point in Pops yelling, that stopped working on her ages ago. Her feet kept moving. That was the prime directive, to keep moving. Bridget shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket, the black leather one she'd bought on a whim, and felt her shoulders tense as she neared her first destination.

She threw a rock at Will's window and moved on. There was really only one place she wanted to be. Her family had always had an odd relationship with the sea, so it seemed fitting. The marina was six blocks away from their drab little cul de sac Pops had dragged them to. There weren't many places on Vancouver Island that were that far away from the shore. The yachts and sailboats bobbed and swayed with each steely swell. It was too rough to go out today, so even the fishing rigs were in. The place still smelled like the cannery a few miles down the road, but the salt spray cut most of it nicely. It was only a half an hour before a pair of legs joined her own over the side of the concrete dock. They were a great deal longer than her own, and capped in worn canvas sneakers. There was a hole in his left toe.

She handed William Scott the letter from her brother and then wanted him very much to leave. Of course, he didn't. Will would want to talk.

"He off?" Will asked.

"Yes."

"He say anything?" He pestered further.

"Nothing that won't be in that letter."

They hadn't looked at each other yet. Bridget really didn't feel like seeing his face on that day of all days.

"You really don't want to see me." Will stated with a bit of a laugh. An acidic, horrid thing that made Bridget's fingers itch to punch him in the face.

"Nope." She said, adding an extra pop at the end, swinging her heels back against the concrete.

Will lit up a cigarette and puffed the smoke out towards the sky. _You're scum_, she wanted to spit, _you're scum and my brother should never have- _but Bridget didn't actually know. Will grew up down the street, but that didn't mean jack shit to her. It meant a hell of a lot to Ham, but she wasn't her brother. It didn't count for shit. Will made Ham's life a hell on earth at least twice a week.

It didn't take a genius to figure out Hamish was gay. It would, however, take a genius to figure out why he hung out with a prick like Will. He was a cruel son of a bitch, drank too much, and enjoyed taking people apart just for the hell of it. She could feel the urge radiating off of him, to start in on her. Ham had always told him off before Will could, but Ham wasn't here anymore.

"Are you going to cuss me out, or just sit there stewing for a while longer?"

"Ain't no use." Bridget laughed ruefully.

Will took another drag off his cigarette and shook his curly black hair away from his face. She wanted to slap him, but his cheekbones would probably cut her hand. He lived for kicks. He lived for nothing else but living. Bridget hated him for it, because she had to live for something. Just because the world was ending, didn't mean you could go fuck with people's lives to get your rocks off for however long you had left.

"Your brother is an adult, Bridget, unlike you he can make his own decisions."

She was beginning to hate Ham for handing her that goddamn letter.

"I know you don't think I'm the kind of man-"

"You're not a man." Bridget interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think you're a man. Period. End of the fucking sentence." She spat, looking him level in the eye. He was a boy, given bigger britches and suddenly possessed with the idea he determined the fate of everyone around him.

Will glared at her, brown eyes deep and dark and trying oh-so-hard to be dangerous.

"Says the little girl who hides behind black leather jackets and combat boots." He snarled, leaning into her personal space, using his height to it's full advantage.

Any other day she would have huffed off and flipped him the bird. But she was sick of him, and the way Ham was wrapped around his finger.

"Get off my dock, Will." Bridget sighed.

"It's not yours, Bridget." He cut through his teeth, flicking his cigarette ash so it landed on her boots.

She sneered, making her canine teeth show. Ham had told her once they looked like fangs, that when she was truly angry she looked like a wolf about to rip someone's throat out. Bridget had always figured it was flattery, but it was worth a try. She squared her her shoulders and felt a muscle twitch in her jaw.

"Don't do that."

Will laughed, breath huffing out into her face, and slowly hit his middle finger against his cigarette. The ash floated down on to the top of her boots. They were nice boots. Worn brown leather, with heavy lug soles. They laced half way up her calf through reinforced steel grommets. Bridget watched the third flick of ash hit the toes. She licked her lips and sucked on her teeth, leaning back on her elbows as Will's laughter grew. She waited until he wasn't looking at her anymore, but barking to the sky like the fucking lunatic he was.

Ham wouldn't like it, but he wasn't there anymore.

Her fist hit his face, cutting the underside of his cheek, knocking him flat on his back, legs still hanging over the edge. She shunted a knee into either shoulder and pinned him down, hand clawing into his face. His cigarette was burning somewhere above his head.

"Get- get off me." Will grunted, abdomen twisting as he tried to rise.

Bridget smacked his head back against the concrete.

"Get off my dock, or I shove you into the ocean." She growled, her face looming above his, teeth flashing. Bridget reached above his fanned out hair and snuffed out the cigarette. She rolled off the older boy and went back to sitting with her legs swung over the edge. He tried to get up with as much dignity as he could.

Bridget had a hell of a time explaining her busted hand to Pops that night. 


End file.
